


Shackles

by crystalsoulslayer



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Bondage and Discipline, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:51:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalsoulslayer/pseuds/crystalsoulslayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timey-wimeyness results in Simm!Master having his way with Fivey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shackles

The Master has always rather liked shackles. They’re so delightfully medieval, and the Doctor makes such delightful noises when he’s locked up in them, particularly in his fifth regeneration.

He’s making those noises now, sweet, quiet whimpers, struggling to find a way of taking the pressure off. He’s cuffed at both ends between the floor and the ceiling, hanging by his wrists, and the metal is already leaving marks on the delicate skin.

The Master smirks. He _does_ enjoy marking his Doctor. He does so now, nipping and biting and scraping at the skin over the Doctor’s ribs, leaving tiny red marks and small bruises in his wake. When he’s finished, he tastes them, long, broad strokes of his tongue, the metallic, almost bloody taste of the abraded skin mingling delightfully with the sweet heat of the bruises. Above him, he hears the Doctor sigh quietly, and frowns when he realizes his tongue must feel good on the Doctor’s wounds. Well, we can’t have that, can we?

He wraps one arm around the Doctor’s torso to pull him closer, a parody of a hug, and gives him a sharp smack on the arse. He yelps, startled, and the Master laughs, smacks him again, sucks skin into his mouth and sinks his teeth into it. Another thing the Master is fond of about this regeneration: when the Doctor does make noises, it’s quite difficult to distinguish the pained sounds and the pleasured ones. Now, as the Master chews and tugs none-too-gently on the skin in his mouth, it’s one long, loud, low moan, and the Master drinks it in for a while before he releases the flesh, licking it and tasting blood, artron sparking on his tongue. He smacks the Doctor’s arse again, then lets go and stands, walking to the small table in the corner and considering its contents.

Behind him, the Doctor is making more sounds. Trying to talk, perhaps. “Good luck with that talking thing,” the Master laughs. “You do realize that thing in your mouth is a gag, don’t you? Later, I’ll be putting something different in there, but you still won’t be talking.”

This time, the Doctor’s noise sounds angry, and there’s a soft jingling noise as he shakes the small rubber ball in his hand. It’s hollow and a rather embarrassingly bright shade of pink, and they use it for the sound made by the bells inside. The Master sighs. He doesn’t exactly _regret_ allowing the Doctor a “safe word,” or in this case, a safe-cat-toy, since that was the only reason the Doctor let them continue, but he’s not particularly fond of it, either. He turns back around and pulls his tie out of the Doctor’s mouth, letting him speak. “What?” he says irritably.

"Take off the blindfold," the Doctor says. "I don’t like not seeing you."

"Too bad. You can’t see me."

"…Ever?"

"Not until, oh… five regenerations from now?"

"You’re from the future?!" the Doctor squeaks, alarmed, sounding for a moment like one of his precious shell-shocked humans, learning about time travel for the very first time. Bless.

The Master puts his tie back in the Doctor’s mouth and says calmly, “Yes. Bit of an incident involving a spatiotemporal corridor and one of the Founders, and I got thrown all the way back to the 1980s trying to get out of it. God, I hate it here. On the plus side, I did miss this version of you. You’re so… cooperative.” The Master smirks and kisses his captive, thankful for the blindfold, since he doesn’t particularly want the Doctor aware of the fact that he has to stand on his tiptoes in order to do so. He returns to the table, letting his fingers trail over the implements there, then chooses his weapon.

Ten minutes later, the Doctor’s lovely, round arse is flushed a dark pink, criss-crossed with sharp red lines from the flogger. The Master reaches out, takes that soft-but-firm flesh in his hand and squeezes it, drinking in the Doctor’s sounds of pained pleasure. He gives the Doctor another smack, watches him jerk and twitch in the shackles, his panting breaths loud in the silent room.

The Master returns to the table once more. He’s just had a wonderful idea.

He slicks his wonderful idea up with lube and teases the Doctor with it, skimming it down his back (what a lovely little arch he makes!), and is delighted to find that when he spreads the Doctor’s arse cheeks with one hand, the Doctor pushes his arse back into his hand, trying to help.

"Eager boy," the Master chuckles, rewarding his captive with a lick to the rim, and this time the sound the Doctor makes is _definitely_ one of pleasure. The Master presses the tip of the inflatable plug against the Doctor’s entrance and he gasps, pushes back, making eager noises, blond hair tossing around his head, forming a halo in the dim light as he nods eagerly. The Master teases him with it for awhile, taking his time, until at last the base of it settles against his arsehole, the pump dangling between his legs. The Doctor moans, hips thrusting into thin air, clenching and relaxing around the welcome intrusion. A bead of sweat, born in his squirming while the Master teased him, rolls down the arch in his lower back; the Master thinks about licking it up, but leaves it alone instead, lets it add to the pretty picture his Doctor paints.

"You want it bigger?" the Master asks, amused, as the Doctor’s arse wiggles in the air, clenches, wiggles again. The Doctor’s answer is a firm nod in the affirmative. The Master obliges, takes the pump in his hand and squeezes it firmly, extracting payment in the form of a single vicious stroke from the flogger. And thus, his brilliant idea comes to fruition; the Doctor _screams_ , shuddering and twisting in his restraints, the force of his motions making new bruises and scrapes under the shackles around his wrists and ankles. For several long moments, the Doctor struggles to reconcile the conflict of pain and pleasure, then stills, whining in the back of his throat, head thrown back. The Master takes advantage of the opportunity to maul the Doctor’s neck, again thankful for the blindfold. He should really try for something taller in his next regeneration.

When the Doctor’s neck has been plastered with hickeys and teeth marks and shines with wetness borrowed from the Master’s mouth, the Master steps behind him again. “More?” he murmurs.

The Doctor draws a shuddering breath, then nods once more. Again the plug expands; again the flogger whistles through the air and adds to the thin red lines rising on the smooth, pale skin of the Doctor’s back; again the Doctor screams with mixed ecstasy and anguish, and again the scream trails off into a pitiful whimper.

Repeat.

By the time the plug has swelled as much as it can, the Doctor’s back is a scribble of marks from the Master’s flogger, and tears course down his face from under the damp blindfold, soft, pained-pleasured sounds slipping between his lips around the Master’s tie. Still, the little ball remains in his fist, silent; the Master rewards him by cupping the Doctor’s hot, heavy balls in his hand and rolling, massaging gently, tilting the plug this way and that, pausing now and then to fuck him with it shallowly.

Above him, the Doctor begins to make helpless, incoherent noises, and something hot and sticky rolls from the underside of the Doctor’s cock onto the Master’s hand. The Master takes a peek, and finds that a low-pressure fountain of precome has worked its way from head to root of the Doctor’s erection. The Master smirks and spreads the fluid over the Doctor’s balls, rubs and squeezes faster now that he has lubrication, fucking the Doctor with the plug properly now, opening him up. Oh, he _has_ missed this Doctor’s arse. A quiet jingling noise breaks his concentration.

The Master lets go of the base of the plug and pulls the tie out of the Doctor’s mouth with one finger. “What is it?”

"Hafta stop," the Doctor mutters, his voice oddly slurred, as though he’s slightly drunk. "I can’t… ‘Mgonna, you know. I can’t… stoppit."

"Oh, you can come," the Master says. "That’s the idea." He takes the plug again and pulls it out, pushes it in again, tilting and twisting it. The Doctor moans something, and the Master recognizes the incoherent noises from before as words—

"Fuckfuck, Master, Mastermaster, ohmyMastermyMaster _fuckfuckfuck_ , yesMasteryes yes _yes_ , oh _there,_ theretherethere _yes_ fuckyesMasterfuck, fuck, Master, gonna—I’m—”

He comes with another scream, his as-yet-untouched cock jumping with his pulse as spurts of white leap from it once, twice, again, again, once more. The Master crosses to the wall and turns the handle of a small crank, lowering the Doctor slowly to the floor. He’s still in the midst of aftershocks, and he doesn’t take his weight up once his feet touch the ground. Not until his knees settle on the cold stone (and the streaks of his own come on his chest start to get more sticky than wet) does he stir, trying to find a more comfortable position. He jumps at the sound as the Master drags a chair up and sits in front of him. He knows what to expect, though, and licks his lips, then hums happily when the Master’s cock slips between them. Theta always did enjoy sucking cock, and he works his way expertly and contentedly down the shaft with sucks and swipes of his tongue and little bobs of the head, holding himself still when the Master fists a hand in his hair (always so soft) and fucks his mouth.

When he’s had enough, the Master pulls the Doctor off and stands, opens the clip attaching the ankle shackles to the floor so he can push the Doctor over the seat of the chair. He’s impatient, so much so that he contents himself with a few quick smacks to the arse before working the plug out and replacing it with his cock. They both moan as he enters, the Master from the tightness around him, the Doctor from the fullness inside of him. The Master fucks him slow and deep and hard, bracing himself with one hand on the Doctor’s hip, the other on his back. He can’t contain himself, and soon, the chair is rising up on two legs as he thrusts and coming back to the ground with a _thwuck-thwuck-thwuck_ ing sound as he pulls back for another. He draws helpless little noises out of the Doctor by way of sharp slaps to the marks that still rise, bright red and hot, on his back. When the Master comes at last, the chair nearly tips over and the world goes white and warm and wonderful for what seems like a very long time.

When his vision cools, he finds himself slumped over the Doctor, softening cock still inside him, licking and nibbling idly at his wounded flesh. The Doctor himself is boneless, exhausted, almost asleep despite the incredibly uncomfortable position. As the Master pulls out, then frees his ankles from their shackles and disconnects his wrists from the ceiling, he notes that there’s fresh come splattered on the floor under the chair, and fresh bruises on the Doctor’s knees. “Always such a good boy for me,” he murmurs, helping a rather tired and bemused Doctor off the chair. There’s a small cot on the floor in the corner, and the Master leads him to it, enjoying the view as the Doctor crawls sedately on his hands and knees beside him. As it should be.

The shackles come off at last, even though it’s tempting to leave the Doctor in them. The Master retrieves his ruined tie from around the Doctor’s neck and helps him settle under the covers. The Master is gentle with him now. There’s no reason not to be. The Master deems it safe to do so and removes the blindfold; the Doctor’s eyes are closed under it, slightly puffy from his tears. The Master smooths the Doctor’s hair, then stands and walks once again to the little table, where his clothes are neatly folded next to the Doctor’s, minus one black silk tie. He dresses efficiently and heads for the door. His hand is on the knob when he hears the quiet sound of bells.

"I’d forgotten," he murmurs, returning to the Doctor for one last (stolen, always stolen, even when it’s asked for) kiss to those soft, swollen lips. "Goodnight." The door makes no noise besides a subdued _click_ as it closes behind him.


End file.
